


I Want Your Belly

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, Gender Play, Impregnation Kink, M/M, Mild intoxication, Mommy Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Harry wants Adam to knock him up. Inspired by on-stage thirst, the Instagram Stories Shirt, Watermelon Sugar, and Harry’s persistent baby fever.
Relationships: Adam Prendergast/Harry Styles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	I Want Your Belly

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline manages to be in about four places at once but there’s barely any Adam fic in the world so I’m making up for losses.

Harry’s quietly speaking into the soft-pink phone he’s got pressed between his cheek and shoulder, pausing as he bumps the dressing room door open with his hip. The fingers of one hand are messily dipped into two squat tumblers, his rings clinking against the glass. His other hand’s tucked up beneath his shirt - a faded yellow graphic tee Adam hasn’t seen before. He brings with him the unmistakable smell of weed and the faintest sour tang of sweat.

Adam startles briefly at the intrusion, putting down the jumper he’d been attempting to fold and giving Harry a pointed look as he crosses the room to disconnect Adam’s phone from the built-in speaker system, plunging the room into silence, the sounds of arena staff outside now suddenly noticeable. The only thing that surprises Adam about Harry’s appearance in his dressing room after the show is the time it’s taken him to arrive. 

“You go. Just send the car back for us,” Harry says into his phone. The speakers are muffled by Harry’s skin, but Adam can just about make out Jeff’s voice. He can’t decipher the words, but the fraught tone is unmistakable. 

“Half an hour. Or give it an hour.” Harry says. Adam hears nothing of Jeff’s response, but Harry’s knowing smirk confirms his suspicions. 

Adam puts down his jumper, taking the glass Harry’s offering. The liquid’s clear. Probably tequila. 

“What’s happening with the car? I’m more or less ready.” Adam lifts the glass to his lips and grimaces. He’s right. 

“I just wanted a bit longer. I didn’t want to rush.” Harry makes a point of switching his phone to flight mode and setting it face down on the coffee table before positioning himself on the sofa arm.

Adam abandons his folding entirely, instead stuffing the small pile of clean laundry he’s amassed into his travel bag without looking. “God yeah, I love the underbelly of an arena too,” he smirks. He’s not going to be the one to acknowledge what this is. He knows Harry wants every encounter, however carefully planned, to always feel spontaneous and overwhelming and romantic and free. 

“What?” Harry asks. He’s toying with the hem of his top. 

Adam zips up his bag and sits down heavily on the sofa where Harry’s feet are tucked between the cushions. He lifts Harry’s foot from beneath his thigh and pulls it into his lap. Harry’s socks are fuzzy and clean, his toes a small handful. “Don’t you want to get going? You don’t _really_ want to stick around here?” 

“It’s just us.” Harry reaches out to his glass on the table but makes no movement to retrieve it beyond opening and closing his fist, grabbing in the direction of the drink. 

Adam stretches to get it without thinking, passing it to Harry. “Mmm. It _is_ just us,” he echoes. 

Harry drains his glass in one gulp, groaning loudly at the sting of alcohol against his chapped lips, the constant travel almost managing to take its toll. 

“Good show tonight,” Adam offers, unable to really settle into the tense vibe Harry’s cultivating. 

Harry wiggles his toes in Adam’s lap. “It was,” he smiles, walking his fingers up Adam’s arm, still holding the glass to his mouth and gently pressing his open lips to the cold rim. 

“I mean, your banter’s on top form, obviously.” Adam rolls his eyes, cursing himself for the sloppy segue. 

“It is?” Harry’s looking at him over the rim of his glass, and he knows. 

“Adam Daddy Prendergast?” Adam aims for exasperated, but his chest’s tight and in his lap Harry’s foot feels all too present. 

The short glass doesn’t begin hide Harry’s wild beaming grin. 

“Did you like it?” Harry asks, wiggling his toes again, close enough to Adam’s dick to be nothing but intentional. 

“I mean, it’s true.” 

Harry passes his empty glass back to Adam who instinctively puts it back on the table. “It is true,” he agrees.

“Is that something you’re into then?” Adam asks softly, his throat dry and his hands hot, the tequila burning his insides. 

“What?”

“Calling people that.”

Harry’s look of confusion is patently overdone but Adam concedes. “Are you into calling people Daddy?” he clarifies. 

“It’s not like that, really. It’s a joke…” Harry attempts, eyes narrowed and focused on Adam’s reaction.

“Well it’s not a joke if it’s true. I’m _literally_ a Dad. But I’m not sure I could really manage the other kind of Daddy.” He doesn’t want to offer what he can’t give. He’d rather turn Harry down than disappoint him. 

Harry presses the arch of his foot down softly atop the visible line of Adam’s dick in his black joggers. “I’m not sure I want the other kind.”

“Then how?”

“Well, you’re Daddy...” Harry’s voice is syrupy slow, and Adam knows he’s supposed to be catching on but Harry’s _constantly_ surprising him and he’s either genuinely shy or feigning it while he’s playing with his fingers in front of his stomach.

Adam takes a breath. “And you’re…? Baby? Are you my baby?”

Harry softly pulls his foot from Adam’s lap, the sudden absence of pleasant pressure uncomfortable. He stands between the V of Adam’s open legs and rubs his stomach pointedly. Harry’s head’s bowed, his expression dreamy and soft. He takes a deep loud breath and holds it, fitting Adam’s hands to the swell of his stomach where it’s now distended, the skin taut and full of air. 

“No,” Harry whispers, still holding his breath. 

That’s when Adam sees the slogan on Harry’s shirt. 

“Oh,” he breathes, rubbing Harry’s skin through the cotton as he lets out his held breath and his stomach recedes. “I’m Daddy… and you’re Mummy.” 

Harry nods, pulling Adam to his feet. He’s lightheaded and his dick’s heavy. 

“Turn around,” Adam instructs. 

Harry clambers hurriedly onto the sofa, his arms crossed beneath his head along the back, his knees almost to the edge of the seat. As Harry situates himself comfortably, Adam hears the familiar whine Harry’s never able to suppress when he’s in his head like this, wound up after hours of careful planning. 

Adam takes a firm hold of Harry’s arse, holding it tightly before letting his hands slide up Harry’s sides until they’re grabbing his waist, pulling him back against Adam’s crotch while his mind catches up with his body. “Condom?” Adam knows the answer he wants, but he’s no idea how far Harry wants to take this. 

Harry clears his throat, arching his back deeply and letting his knees slide further apart, and shakes his head. “I’m ovulating.” 

And _fuck_. Adam’s grip on Harry’s waist falters, his hands slicking up with sweat instantly. He can feel his pulse in his dick, can hear the sharp skirt of metal wheels being dragged along in the hallway outside, can barely unclench his jaw, can feel the way Harry’s struggling to hold still beneath him. Can feel how his skin’s almost vibrating.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” Is all that Adam can manage. 

“Fuck no,” Harry groans, his voice guttral and far away. “I’m not wasting it. I can feel it.” He’s wriggling excitedly against Adam’s crotch and Adam needs _some_ kind of relief, because it wouldn’t be the first time Harry’s made him come in his boxers, but it feels like that would be Harry’s worst nightmare at the moment.

“Feel what?” Adam pants, taking his hands off Harry for only as long as it takes for him to slick his hair back behind his ears and out of his eyes. He isn’t for a moment going to mess up whatever Harry is designing for himself, but he needs to know what’s okay. What’s real and in the room with them and what’s just for Harry. 

“Feels like you’re gunna get me pregnant,” Harry groans into the meat of his arm. He’s bucking his hips now, searching backwards for something, straining his back and every muscle in his legs to get _something_ inside him. But he’s still dressed.

“Harry,” Adam warns, driving the fabric of Harry’s joggers deep between his arse cheeks and rubbing where he knows Harry can’t handle it.

Harry wails. “Put your fingers in me,” he begs.

Adam pauses. “Wait, lube.” 

“Don’t need it. I’m wet.”

“Harry…” Because Adam’s as game for this as Harry could ever hope to find him, but he’s not small, and Harry’s not gentle. The last time they tried to fuck with nothing but spit and Harry’s determination, Harry couldn’t take anything else in his arse for a week, and Adam hasn’t been allowed to forget it. 

Harry drags his own pale yellow joggers down shamelessly, leaving them around his thighs, revealing his soft naked arse and the unmistakable gleam of slick between his thighs. Adam groans in appreciation. 

Harry glances back over his shoulder, his eyes heavy and his bottom lip bitten raw. “I always get like this when I’m ovulating. Feel it.”

Adam wants to lick him up. To drive his tongue into Harry and show him how wet he can really get. But the pulsing ache in his dick _needs_ attending to, and if he’s going to even _attempt_ to knock Harry up, he needs to get in him before he comes against the backs of Harry’s thighs. “What am I doing?” 

“I thought you’d have had enough practice putting babies in people already?”

Adam drags a breath. Hears the shallow rattle of it as it leaves him again. He’s got a headache blooming across the width of his forehead and he needs to relieve the pressure that’s building. He dips his finger between Harry’s cheeks. When Adam makes contact with the puffy dripping skin of his hole, Harry pitches forward. 

Harry hiccoughs quietly, whining, “I get so sensitive.”

“And so wet-” Adam says to himself, drilling one finger in to the hilt a few times before taking it out to spread the excess wetness around Harry’s taint and balls.

“Feel how loose I am.” Harry gasps proudly as Adam begins to piston the single finger into Harry’s waiting hole.

And Harry’s right. He _is_ looser than normal. Adam has to close his eyes for a moment and remind himself that he _does_ know what normal’s like for Harry’s arse. 

“You get started without me?” Adam asks, rubbing forcefully over Harry’s prostate where its already swollen and hard.

“No,” and Harry’s grinding back against Adam’s hand and still-clothed crotch, sloppy already and barely making contact, just humping back like he’s in heat. “It’s so I can get fucked easier. Everything gets wet.” He bucks his hips again. “When I need it. Daddy. God. I just open up.” He leans further into the sofa, his back arching deeply. “Fuck- So you can get me pregnant.” 

Adam can barely hear the words tumbling from Harry’s giddy mouth, let alone understand them. Instead he drags his own joggers down and after taking the too-sensitive edge off with a few barely-there tugs on his dick, he levels the head with Harry’s hole and drives in with one thrust. 

Harry wails deep in his throat, his arms visibly shaking, the hair at the nape of his neck wet with sweat. 

“You okay?” Adam grunts.

Harry manages to gasp out, “big.” 

“I know.”

Adam doesn’t wait before he drags his dick back through the soaking wetness of Harry’s hole and punches back in. Harry’s bearing down in the same rhythm he always favours, loose on the in stroke, clenched and tight as he’s emptied. As Harry works his insides to milk what he can from Adam, the pale mounds of his arse cheeks clench greedily. “But I need it.”

“Fuck, Harry.” Adam says, his hands gripping Harry’s waist as tight as he dares as he pulls his thrashing body back onto his dick as roughly as he can manage. Harry’s hair bounces as he’s driven face-first into the sofa cushions, his breath close and wet on his cheeks, sucking gasps from the material.

“I’m not gunna last,” Adam confesses. 

“Come right in my belly,” Harry begs into the fabric. 

“Fuck.” Adam can almost see stars, and his legs are sore where he’s straining to thrust as hard as Harry always needs it “What?”

Harry lets his face fall squarely into the cushion, turned just far enough to the side that he’s still able to mumble out, “I want you to come in me. I wanna feel it in my belly.” 

Quickly, Harry reaches behind him, grabbing Adam’s hands and laying them out, palms open and warm against the clammy skin of Harry’s stomach. He doesn’t aim for his dick and Adam doesn’t touch it. 

“Tell me,” Harry spits, his eyelashes clumped and wet, his arse vice-tight. 

“What?”

“How I’m gunna be a mummy.” 

And Adam fucking _loses_ it. He’s no frame of reference, nothing that he _knows_ Harry will like. So he just starts talking. Babbling whatever he can think of as he drills into Harry, feeling the tension in his balls draw closer and tighter and more taut than he can almost bare. He grabs at Harry's abs. “Fuck, all that training, for nothing,” he rushes, his hands grabbing where Harry’s stomach muscles are tight and firm and defined, clenching each time Adam thrusts in. Harry whimpers but doesn’t stop him.

“Won’t be able to see your abs when you’re fucked full.” He thinks Harry might be crying. “When you’re all round. Jesus, Harry. Fuck. When you’re massive.” He can feel the static sensitivity in the end of his dick he _always_ feels when he’s close. “When your tits are bigger than this.” He clumsily takes two handfuls of Harry's tits, firm and perky and hard against his palms. “When they’re dripping. Fuck-.” He can barely breathe and his throat’s dry and sore. “When you’re full of milk and my baby.”

Harry screams when he comes, painting the sofa and losing all composure but keeping the muscles of his arse tighter than Adam can stand, and he follows him, spilling deep in to Harry's clutching heat. “Does Mummy like that?”

  
  



End file.
